


The Blue Project

by TheCreationOfLilacs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Swimming, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Everyone Needs A Hug, Everything is a mess, F/M, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, Pidge | Katie Holt is Savage, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), did I mention slowburn?, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCreationOfLilacs/pseuds/TheCreationOfLilacs
Summary: When Keith transfers to Garrison University, he’s in it for himself. And maybe a little bit for his brother Shiro, who turned dad mode on full blast after the disaster that was last year. But what Keith wasn’t expecting was how great Garrison would be, with new friends, a new swim team, and a chance at redemption.That was until Lance came along. He was annoying, he was loud. And why did he always have to win? Yet, as the year progresses, Keith begins to realize that other feelings are hidden by hatred.





	1. Galra to Garrison

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic that nobody asked for, but I wrote anyways! I was feeling like there was a pretty shallow pool (haha pun intended) of Voltron swimming aus, so I made one myself! This is one of my first fanfics, so any constructive criticism would be nice! Thanks for taking the time to read!

A wave of humid, chlorine-filled air washes over Keith the moment he steps through the set of double glass doors and onto the pool deck. Tiled floors and high ceilings glow a harsh white under fluorescent lights, the tall windows to the right frame the still-dark, starry skies of early morning. The low hum of overhead fans dull the echo of voices drifting from the bleachers, where a small crowd of uniformed students are standing, sitting, or flopping on the stainless steel benches in varying states of exhaustion.

  
Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his battered red jacket, Keith hesitantly walks over to the group. As he gets closer, he realizes that (thank god) he wasn’t the only newcomer- a dozen or so are without uniform, including several blonde girls huddled in a corner, a couple of inhumanly muscular guys, and a few others scattered between the grey sweatsuit-clad veterans.

  
“Keith!” An unmistakable voice to his left shouts excitedly. Shiro, a welcome familiar face in the strange crowd, is standing in the center of a rather large group of swimmers, looking unfairly attractive in the plain grey sweatshirt and sweatpants with a small embroidered lion on the breast, and “Shirogane” printed in bold white letters across the back.

  
“Good morning to you, too.” Shiro smiles. Keith scowls back. His brother should know how much he hates mornings by now. Despite the foggy state of his brain, Keith’s eyes are immediately drawn to the woman on Shiro’s right. Tall and curvy with dark, smooth skin, impossibly long platinum hair, and startling blue eyes. I would totally be into her, if, you know... Now, his brother’s aggressively self-doubting declarations of love from the past three years make more sense. If anyone was out of Shiro’s league, it would be her.

  
“Keith, meet Allura. She’s this year’s captain of the lady lions.” Allura either ignores or completely misses his sickeningly sweet look of adoration. Keith nearly pukes from the sheer mushiness of it all.

  
“Nice to meet you, Keith! Shiro has told me so much about you! Coran thinks that you will be a great addition to the team.” She winks at him, smiling warmly. “Just don’t spread that around too much, we don’t want the other newbies to complain of biased tryouts. You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

  
Someone taps sharply on his shoulder, and Keith jumps. “What?” He grumbles.

  
“Sup, my nerd.” Pidge, in all of their four-foot-something glory, stands slumped behind him, styrofoam coffee cup cradled in their hands. For all four months that Keith has been attending Garrison University, his roomate Pidge had been pretty much the only thing he would call a friend. Smart, techy, and bitter as hell, they hit it off with Keith right away, which according to Shiro was pretty much a nonexistent possibility due to his “difficult” personality.

  
“Wait. You swim?” Keith did NOT see that coming. He almost never saw Pidge anywhere but glued to their laptop, and the duo’s conversations rarely involved anything but discussions of old music and conspiracy theories.

  
“Since I was five.” Pidge tucks a stray lock of caramel hair behind their ear, completely disregarding Keith’s shocked expression.

  
“Care to introduce us?” Shiro questions, raising his eyebrow at his younger brother. “I’m so glad to find out that you’re opening up to new people! Especially after last year.”

  
Keith feels his face flame up. He actually wants to die. If the floor could eat him alive right now, that would be excellent. He has just made something remotely close to a friend, and Shiro, the dad of all dads, felt the need to not only embarrass the shit out of him, but to also bring up last year. Keith’s freshman year at Galra College had not been a good one, and he definitely, definitely, did not need to think about that right now.

  
A sharp whistle echoes off of the high ceilings, and the group of swimmers immediately quiets and straightens towards the front of the pool. Keith silently thanks the orange-haired figure for saving him from utter mortification, and plops down on the nearest bench, sliding his ratty duffel bag over to make room for Pidge. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

  
“Welcome, swimmers! My name is Coach Coran, and I will be your head coach for this season!” The man joins the crowd in the stands, a jovial smile shining under what might be the most impressive mustache Keith has ever seen. “Again, welcome, or welcome back! Thank you for coming out this early! I am looking forward to working with many of you this year. As returning swimmers may know, we lost many of our best competitors to graduation last year, so we are really going to have to step it up this year to beat out our rivals.”

  
Coran nods at Allura and Shiro, who join him at the front of the group. “These are your captains for the year, Shiro and Allura. They will be in charge of the social aspect of the team- I’m just here for the swimming!” He laughs to himself, but Keith’s not really sure exactly why. This guy seems like a bit of an odd bird, although not entirely unpleasant. Allura and Shiro wave to the swimmers, then hastily retreat to the bleachers, seeming glad to escape the watchful eyes of their teammates.

  
Last spring, when Shiro announced to him that he was going to be the Garrison Lions’ swim captain in the next school year, Keith was a bit surprised. Shiro is a natural leader and all, but Keith hadn’t realized just how good of a swimmer his brother was. It was just that he was always so talented at everything, but too humble to admit it. Keith often found himself to be more than a bit envious of his natural ability to be so freaking amazing at everything.

  
Still, Keith is proud. He and Shiro have only had each other since he was ten, and he can’t think of a more qualified man for the job.

  
“Okay, swimmers!” Coran had lost most of the team’s attention while Shiro and Allura were finding their seats. “Tryouts are on Friday at six in the morning SHARP! I don’t take kindly to latecomers, so please try to be timely! For today, just find a lane, hop in, and swim. We want good times for Friday!”

  
***

  
The moment Keith emerges from the locker room, the familiar sound of splashing envelops him. Both the practice pool and the larger competition pool are packed. There’s no way he’ll find a lane that has less than six complete strangers in it. Great.

  
Setting his bag down on the far left side of the bleachers, he grabs his equipment, then makes his way over to the far end of the practice pool. Pidge’s small frame stands out in the mass of tall, lanky swimmers, and Keith watches them dive into the far lane. Luckily, the swimmers over there seem to be about his pace, so he puts on his goggles, sets down his kickboard and pull buoy at the end of the lane, and jumps in after Pidge.

  
The water is cold, and it feels great. The past few weeks of school without swimming have been off; he hasn’t been sleeping well, and his chem professor probably thinks he’s stupid due to his completely aimless destruction of two labs in the past week. Now, in the water, everything clicks. Streamlining off the wall, he glides easily into freestyle, flips fast at the wall, and bursts into his second lap. Just when he is about to reach the wall again, he feels a brush of a hand at his feet.

  
Really? During Warmups? Idiot.

  
Keith touches the wall, then lets backs into a corner to allow this asshole to pass. As the guy flips, a blur of tan limbs, Keith catches a glimpse of a small smirk upon his goggled face. Competitive bastard. Fuming, he joins back into the group, a new sense of power in his arms, his legs kicking faster.

  
They swim 750 yards before Coran’s shrill whistle stops the leader of their lane, that tan boy who clearly thinks he’s better than everyone.

  
“Listen up, my swimmers! Since it is the beginning of the season, today’s workout will be fairly easy. Let’s start with a pull set- I want five 500’s pull on six minutes each. This should not be too difficult, or at least I hope it won’t be!” Coran starts the clock, and bright, blocked red numbers glare down at the swimmers. “On the bottom!”

  
***

  
Panting slightly, Keith rips the cap off of his head and tosses it on the edge of the pool. It takes almost all of his strength to lift himself out of the water, his arms burning from what was supposed to be an easy workout. That was a lot more difficult than any Galra’s practices had been. Wincing as he squats down to grab his stuff, he feels another sharp poke on his right shoulder blade.

  
“Doin’ okay there, buddy?” Pidge smirks. They offer him a hand, and he gratefully takes it, thighs on fire from the effort.

  
“Well, you can’t be much better off.” He grumbles, hugging his kickboard to his chest. “You’re new to the team, too. And don’t even think about trying to tell me that it was ‘easy’ or whatever.” He stalks over to his bag, Pidge close on his heels.

  
“True, I’m just not a weakass.”

  
“HEY!” He swats them playfully on the head, and they duck away, cackling.


	2. Altea Cafe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Keith's first swim practice, new and old friendships unite, and things are pretty good. That is, until breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I have made a commitment! I am ACTUALLY writing a second chapter of this thing! Honestly, a huge thank you to the kudos, comments, and bookmarks I received so far. I never thought anyone would see this, and you guys are the reason that I am so motivated to continue this story. That, and I absolutely love this plot line! Thanks again- more notes at the end :)

Keith finds Shiro out in the lobby, one broad shoulder leaning casually against the painted cinder block wall. It was just plain unfair how his brother could  _ still  _ look hot after swim practice. Keith knows he looks like the combination of a wet rat and a potato, and his oversized sweats certainly aren’t helping anything.

“How was it?” Shiro’s smile is teasing; he knows how badly it sucks for the new kids. “Don’t worry, it will all get harder after tryouts.”

“Go to hell.” Keith pulls the strap of his bag further onto his shoulder. Why did he  _ always  _ have to be so happy?

“Well, do you wanna go out for breakfast? A few of us are meeting up at Altea Cafe to grab something before class.” Keith immediately tenses. He hates, no,  _ despises, _ meeting new people. People are loud, outgoing, and they actually expect to carry out a conversation with you. Practice this morning was bad enough.

“Oh, you should invite your friend Pidge! Then you’ll have someone to talk to other than your extremely cool older brother.” 

“Oh. My. God.” Keith actually facepalms, as if that would mask him from Shiro’s extreme dorkiness. “Whatever. I’ll text Pidge. But  _ don’t  _ say that I don’t try to be social or some shit like that.”

“C’mon. I’ll give you a ride.” 

Keith trails behind Shiro, and whips his phone out of his back pocket. His screen is so cracked that he can barely read what he types. He has to get hired somewhere ASAP so he can get that fixed, because lord knows if what he’s texting Pidge makes any sense. He hurriedly pushes through the double glass doors in order to avoid that insanely extroverted lobbyist, and-

“PANCAKES, BITCHES!”

“JESUS CHR- what the HELL, Pidge?” Keith nearly drops his phone for the billionth time as Pidge lunges at him from around the corner. 

They stand a few inches away from him, laughing maniacally, nearly collapsing on the ground from the apparent hilarity of the situation. Shiro, that traitorous ass, stands near the hood of his truck, chucking.

“I hate you both.” Keith yanks open the door on the passenger’s side and throws his bag into the back with a bit more force than necessary. He shoves himself further down in his seat, and pulls his hood over his head. Yep, definitely time for a coffee. 

As the engine rumbles to life with a bit more noise than what would be considered healthy, Shiro pats him on the head. “It’s okay, bud. I still love you.”

Keith scowls and shifts so far down that his head is practically horizontal. Luckily, Pidge seems to take it more as a joke than a genuine sign of adoration, and their laughter fills the back of the car.

“Ooh- Shiro, can I have the aux?” Pidge sits up suddenly, pushing their round glasses further up on their nose. Despite having known each other for barely two hours, the polar opposites seem to be getting along swimmingly (heh), at least as far as Keith can see. 

Pidge plugs their phone in and reaches across the center console from the backseat to turn up the volume at a rather alarming rate, a small smirk on their lips. Instantly, the rhythmic bass of Jane’s Addiction blares through the speakers. 

“PIDGE NO!” Keith grapples for the volume knob in a futile attempt to keep the speakers from blowing out. Unfortunately, Pidge manages to wrench his hand away while smashing his face between the car door and the seat, effectively trapping him in a lopsided backbend. 

“PIDGE YES!” They whoop, their sentence morphing into the opening scream of “Coming Down the Mountain”. Shiro takes one look at the headbanging child-of-metal creature in the back of the truck and rolls his eyes. 

Keith manages to finally unstick his head. By now, it’s too late. Pidge is too far down the rabbit hole, and if it wasn’t like eight in the morning, he would be enjoying it too. They’re pulling up to the cafe anyways.

Shiro finds a parking spot and hurriedly turns the key, sighing blissfully at the sudden silence. “I’m gonna be honest, Keith. Your choice of friends this year has been interesting. Not like you have many options.”

“HEY!” Pidge attempts to kick Shiro in the shin, but Keith sticks out his arm, and they topple over onto the sidewalk. 

“Maybe later, Pidge. He’s our ride home.” He sticks out a hand and yanks them back onto their feet, then turns to Shiro. “Still, you can’t say anything, Mr. ‘Frank Sinatra is a god’”. 

“Well, EXCUSE ME, but I am happy to inform you that Frank Sinatra is absolutely legenda- Oh, there’s Allura!” Keith is pretty sure even Pidge can see the way that Shiro’s face lights up at the sight of the woman across the street. Wow. Shiro is so done for.

She notices them and smiles, then somehow manages to gracefully j-walk across a normally busy street without getting run over.

“Hey, Shiro! And Keith! And Pidge, right?” She smiles down at Keith and Pidge, and ties her still-damp curtain of hair into a top knot. “You two looked great at practice! I’m so glad that you’re trying out for swim team this year. I’m sure you’ve heard, but we can use all of the help we can get this season.” She smiles wryly. Keith has heard from Shiro about the loss of talent that came with the end of last year, but he hadn’t realized it was this bad. And as horrible as it is, a small part of him is glad: Maybe he’ll have a chance at tryouts.

Allura’s phone pings, and she fishes around in her purse, finally pulling it out alongside various papers. “Damn thing’s a mess… I’ve just been so busy…” She squints at the screen against the glare of the rising sun, and her face brightens. “They’re already here, Hunk says they’re over in the corner.”

This must be a regular thing for them, Keith realizes. Shit, he’s definitely a newcomer here. Well, at least he has Pidge. Even if no one else wants to talk to him, they will.

Allura leads the group through the cheery blue door of Altea Cafe, making a small string of bells above their heads jingle softly. It’s pretty packed for a Monday morning, with nearly every table crammed with students either frantically studying or sleepily drooped over an espresso. And the line leading up to the counter snakes across the room multiple times. Shoot. He has chemistry at ten, and he really can’t afford to piss off his professor any more if he wants to pass the class.

“Orders, everyone?” Shiro gets into line behind a girl who looks way too motivated for a Monday, and pulls out his wallet. “On me. In honor of the new season!” Allura opens her mouth to protest, but Shiro cuts her off. “Can you go introduce Keith and Pidge to the others?”  
She rolls her eyes and gives him a small smile. “Sure, but I’m gonna figure out a way to pay you back somehow.” When she turns to walk back through the maze of tables, Pidge gives Keith a devilish grin. 

“I think we both know what Shiro is hoping for as payback.”

Oh, so they had figured it out. Honestly, Keith shouldn’t even be surprised at this point.

They approach a small table in the corner with six rickety chairs packed around it. Two of them are filled. One by a smiling guy in a bright yellow shirt, and the other by a very familiar face.

Tall, gangly, and tan, with a smile stretching a mile wide as he laughs at the other’s joke. The smile fades, however, when he locks eyes with Keith. In fact, he seems positively revolted by his presence. 

Allura, oblivious to the current predicament, steps to the side and dramatically presents the two men with a sweep of her arms. “Keith and Pidge, meet my old swimming buddies! That’s Hunk.” The yellow shirt guy turns to them and waves. 

“And that’s Lance.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys like it? This chapter was so much fun to write! A you can probably tell from the ending, the story is going to really pick up from here. Hold on, people. It's about to get wild. 
> 
> Just so you know, I have zero plans for an updating schedule. My life is about to get really busy, so I am just going to crank out a chapter whenever I have the time. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> Song that Pidge was Playing in the car- "Coming Down the Mountain" by Jane's Addiction- A family favorite!


	3. Friends and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The history of the rivalry is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while. Sorry about that! The good news is that I have a pretty clear layout of the plot from here. Now I just have to write!

Oh. Hell. No.

  
Keith is NOT down for this. The morning had just begun to turn around, and now he has to deal with this idiot again.

  
“Umm… Allura… I’ll- I’ll be right back…” Keith feels hip nearly snap out of it’s socket as he bolts around the corner, frantically scanning the crowd for Shiro. Considering that his brother is roughly six inches taller than everyone else, it doesn’t take long to find him. Keith squeezes through a pack of chattering girls and frantically pokes Shiro’s arm, mind racing. Why was Lance here? What was his problem? Hadn’t they just met this morning at practice?

  
Shiro’s face morphs into concern when he sees Keith’s obviously panicked expression. “What’s up, bud? Something wrong?”

  
“Who the hell invited him?”

  
“Keith, calm down. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  
“SHIRO. LANCE. Lance, as in the dude from practice this morning that I told you about! The incompetent narcissistic airhead who had absolutely no sense of pace or-” Shiro swats him over the head, knocking his hood partway down his head.

  
“Calm down. Lance is a bit competitive, but he is a valuable member or the team, and bearable once you get to know him. Just give him a chance, okay?” Keith gives Shiro his best practiced death glare.

  
“I actually think you guys could form a killer relay, and maybe even become friends.” Keith is actually trying to burn holes into his skull now. Maybe even melt this crazy fantasy out of his brain. His brother is actually insane.

  
Allura’s willowy form casts a shadow over Keith as she pushes him and Shiro up to the counter. “Time to order, boys!” She peers at the menu hanging overhead. “I’m feeling tea today, Emma… ooh! And a chocolate croissant! Let’s see… and Pidge wants a small latte and a bagel with peanut butter. Thanks, girl!” Allura clearly knows the curly haired girl working the register. And, honest to god, Keith is virtually positive that he sees this Emma girl glance at Shiro and smirk.

There’s no way. Does Allura… if she does, Keith might actually kill Shiro for being so ridiculously evasive about this whole dumb crush.

  
Suddenly, he realizes that everyone is staring at him, obviously thinking he is incapable of ordering for himself.

  
“Ummm… I’ll have a coffee...yeah. Tall decaf, please.”

  
Emma smiles at him. “Sounds good! I’ll send your order over when it’s ready! Usual table, Allura?”

  
“Yep. See you in Psychology!” Allura turns back to them. “Let’s go sit down, my quads are burning from those kick sets! Coran is really cracking down this year.”

  
Yet again, Keith finds himself following her to that stupid table. Which would be completely fine if Lance wasn’t there. Unfortunately, Keith can still see the head of short brown hair facing Pidge, who appears to be laughing. Really? Them too? Little gremlin traitor.

  
“Y’know, if you would put down your hood and stop sulking, then maybe you would seem more approachable.”

  
Shiro knocks his hood off of his head all the way this time. “Just give him a chance, okay?”

  
Keith’s retort is cut off by the realization that the black and white floor tile is rapidly approaching his face. SPLAT. Yep. That one hurt. He should probably start tying his shoes. Wincing, he pushes himself up into a squat, and takes Shiro’s already outstretched hand. Shiro has seen enough clumsy Keith in his lifetime to know what’s coming.

  
“Nice one, mullet boy.” Lance’s steely eyes mirror his cocky smirk. “With that kind of coordination, I wouldn’t count on being in the pool past tryouts.”

  
Keith takes a step towards Lance’s chair, feeling rage singe through his veins. “Mullet boy? Really? Is that the best you can do?” He will destroy this jackass. “With that big of a mouth, I wouldn’t be surprised if you swallow the entire pool and drown before you can finish a 25.”

  
Lance’s indignant squawk rings throughout the cafe, turning several heads. “EXCUSE ME? For your information-”

  
“That’s it, you two. Cut it out.”

  
Shiro’s dad face is turned on full blast, and Keith knows better than to try him. Apparently, Lance does, too.

  
“Keith, sit over there. Just try to be civil for the next half hour. I don’t want a dead body on my hands.”

  
Shiro’s hand is holding down his hood before Keith can manage to pull it back up. Wow, his brother is serious today. Reluctantly, Keith yanks out a chair by the picture of a giant baguette. Thank god Pidge is on his right, and Shiro is across from him. A metaphorical safety wall.

  
Keith remains silent as the group chatters amicably. Lance leads the conversation, moving his hands animatedly as he tells story after story, talking a mile a minute. Hunk jumps in from time to time, usually to just agree with Lance. Pidge seems to be pretty well acquainted with everyone already, and they laugh along like they didn’t just meet them today. Shiro and Allura, sitting side by side, talk quietly about team plans, relays, whatever. How Allura doesn’t notice Shiro’s faint blush is a mystery. Keith knows he’s the anomaly. He always is. It’s not like he doesn’t want to be part of the conversation- He just doesn’t know how to join in.

  
“Hey guys, I have an idea!” Hunk’s face lights up, while Lance looks vaguely surprised at his “my sister broke her arm and we ran over a cat on the way to the hospital” story being interrupted.

  
“Since we have some newcomers, why don’t we introduce ourselves! Now that everyone’s here, I mean. I’ll start.” Allura and Shiro finally look up. Keith sits up straighter, hoping that he looks like Shiro’s definition of “friendly”.

  
“Hi, I’m Hunk, I’m a sophomore, and I swim freestyle and breaststroke.” He taps Lance on the shoulder. “Pass it on, brotato chip!”

  
Lance rolls his eyes, but smiles. That’s the first time Keith has seen him smile. Not angry or snarky, but a real, genuine smile. Huh. When Lance isn’t being obnoxious, he actually seems… approachable.

  
“Lance McClain. Sophomore. Medley, but my best stroke is, y’know, besides all of the strokes, backstroke.”

  
“Pidge Gunderson. Freshman, freestyle. And backstroke as my secondary stroke.”

  
“Hi all! You already know me, but I’m Allura, and I am a senior. I swim butterfly, but I also can do breaststroke, or medley in a pinch!” She smiles up a Shiro. “Your turn, Captain!”

  
“Hi, I’m Shiro. I’m Keith’s adopted brother, in case you didn’t know.” Lance’s jaw drops and Hunk looks vaguely surprised, but Allura and Pidge aren’t fazed at all by this revelation. “Freestyle, and butterfly.”

  
There’s a long pause before Keith realizes that he is the only one who hasn’t spoken.

  
“Oh, um, I’m Keith Kogane. I transferred this year, as a sophomore. I swim freestyle, and sometimes backstroke. So… yeah.”

  
Shiro and Allura smile encouragingly at him, and before he achieves the impossible feat of making this conversation more awkward than it already is, a man in a black apron carries a massive tray of food over to their corner.

  
As his- Friends? Acquaintances? Keith isn’t sure what they are- munch happily on their breakfasts. Keith finds himself studying Lance’s sharp profile. High cheekbones, thin eyebrows, upturned nose, Keith swears he has seen it before, but where?

  
Ignoring his hunch, Keith takes a sip from the paper cup in front of him. And just like the wave of caffeine rushing through his veins, it hits him. Oh. Oh. So that’s why Lance hates him.

  
***

  
_The air was thick enough to drink out of a cup. Keith can feel the humidity clinging to his skin, his lips, even his eyebrows. Ahead of him, Lotor, Sendak, and Zarkon, the three powerhouses of the team, stand in a perfect line behind the blocks. Keith pulls his black race cap out of the waistband of his purple suit, and uses his free hand to tuck in his ponytail. Hand. Something that Shiro will never get back._

  
_Shiro was in an open water race last month. He had been training for ages, and even bought a new suit for the occasion. He had been so excited when he got on the plane to New Zealand. He loved swimming so much, he couldn’t imagine spending his winter break doing anything else._

  
_Keith flexes his arm. The pain his brother must have felt with the bite, as a Great White took off his forearm in one chomp. There was so much blood, the ocean was red, everything was red. Keith remembers the TV footage- “College Student Brutally Attacked by Great White in Christchurch”. From his tiny, single bed dorm room at Galra College, it had all been a dream. Nothing but a nightmare; it wasn’t real. But it all came crashing down on him with the hospital visits, and that shiny silver prosthetic, the ghost of Shiro’s bones mocking the routine of life._

  
_Keith knows that while he is here, at Garrison University, swimming in the A Relay for the Galra, his brother is in therapy. Struggling to move his arm, to regain his strength. He will swim it for him. For his brother, who deserves more than anything to be here, competing against him._

  
_The backstrokers jump into the water, their uniform splashes echoing off of the high ceilings. The crowd goes silent as the swimmers pull up on the blocks, then erupt with cheers as the buzzer starts them off. The purple and black clad Galra fans cheer as Lotor slices through the water. Their yells are drowned out, however, by the Garrison section. A sea of orange and grey screams down at the swimmers, chanting the name “Max” over and over._

  
_The Garrison’s cheers seem to be working. Their top relay has edged out Keith’s by the end of the first 100 yards. Even as Sendak and Zarkon complete their legs of the race, they continue to struggle. They are only a second or two apart, but in a 400 medley relay, that’s a lot of time. As Zarkon mechanically plows through hs final length of butterfly, Keith steps up onto the block, lowering his mirrored goggles over his eyes._

  
_Out of curiosity, Keith looks over to the lane next to him, where the Garrison A Relay is swimming. That’s where Shiro would have been. On the block next to him, shifting his feet, lining up to win the race for his team. But instead, a tall, tan, freckled boy steps up, briefly stretches his shoulders, and pops on his goggles._  
_Back in Keith’s lane, Zarkon is getting closer. Halfway across the pool. At the flags. At the “T”. Keith swings his arms around, the sound of the Garrison swimmer’s dive distant in his ears. For Shiro._

  
_The water is frigid. With practiced kicks, Keith surfaces, and launches into his stroke. This is his thing. The rush of water past his arms, the dulled cheer of the crowd._

  
_His flip turn is perfect. Just like Shiro’s. His legs kick up a tsunami. Like Shiro’s do. And his arms, liquid fire with effort, fly in and out of the water. Like Shiro’s._

  
_And then he’s crashing into the wall, a wave of water at his feet. The cheers are wild, relentless. Ripping off his cap, he reaches over to the other lane to shake hands with the tan Garrison swimmer. He’s left grasping air._

  
_The boy is staring up at the scoreboard in disbelief._

  
_Galra A: 3:09.76- first place. Garrison A: 3:10.21- second place._

  
_They’d won. And they qualified for championships!_

  
_But the cutoff was 3:10.00. Shiro’s team didn’t make it. The tan boy hauls himself out of the pool and brushes off his teammates, angry tears running down his cheeks._

  
***

  
Keith feigns checking the time on his phone, then hastily stands up and pushes his chair in, ignoring Shiro’s quizzical look. He has to get out of here.

  
“Hey… it was nice meeting you all, but- I’ve got a lab in Chemistry today, and can’t be late… I need to stop at my dorm before, so… See you all later?” He grabs his lukewarm coffee and rushes to the door, trying to block out the friendly chorus of “bye, Keith” behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!


	4. Time Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time trial day!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s alive? THIS GIRL!!! I am so sorry that I have been ignoring this. Between APs, the ACT, violin recitals and finals, I have been crazy busy. 
> 
> This chapter was kind of short, but I’m trying to get back into the writing game. I promise to post more often from now on :)
> 
> Also, sorry that the formatting is kind of whack. I’ll work on fixing it!

_Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep bee-_

  
Keith slams his hand down on his alarm clock, the one that Shiro bought for him at the beginning of last year as a “Congratulations, now that you’re in college it’s time to be independent!” gift. The one that conveniently gets louder the longer that you leave it on. Honestly, he has no idea why he still uses the damn thing.

  
He groans, rolling off of the crinkly plastic mattress. 4:30? In the morning? Nope. Too early. The bed is tempting, but he has to be at the pool on time. And, he has to get Pidge up, which is an adventure within itself. Carefully maneuvering over various mountains of discarded clothing, he slowly reaches out to the foot of his roommate's bed. He has to do this fast, or he will miss his chance.

  
Keith grabs the corner of the comforter and pulls. Nothing.

  
“Pidge?” He hears some quiet rustling, but the blanket won’t move. “Pidge, we’re gonna be late.”

  
Ew, His voice sounds like he’s swallowed an entire bag of gravel. A faint groan travels from the dark corner of Pidge’s bed. They don’t sound much better off.

  
“For the record, Keith, I hate you.”

  
“Well, I didn’t choose this hour of Satan to have time trials. Now get up, or I’m leaving without you.”  
Blindly feeling his way to the light switch on the other side of the room, Keith nearly wipes out on an old pizza box before finally flipping on the harsh fluorescent overheads of their dorm.

  
“Shiro would be disappointed in you, Keith. This pigsty does NOT meet the adulting requirements of life.”

  
Keith scowls. “Not like you’re helping the mess at all. Besides, I have a place for everything.” He digs through the pile of papers and food wrappers on his nightstand, and eventually pulls out a hair tie.

  
“See? It can’t be that bad if I can find everything I need. _Pidge_.”

  
“Whatever. But for the sake of avoiding the Dad Talk, we sho-”

  
“C’mon, we are going to be late! We can worry about this later. And unless you just don’t want to the make the team, you should probably get your shit together.” He ties his bed-head into some form of ponytail at the nape of his neck and slings his bag over his shoulder.

  
Pidge slides to the floor dramatically, their short hair contrived into a frizzy halo underneath their blanket burrito. They then roll themselves around the absolute disaster that is the floor, run into the wall next to the door, and dramatically pop up while flinging the comforter across the room and back onto their bed. Somehow, their bag is resting at their feet.

  
“Bitch, I was BORN READY! Let’s move!”

  
Great. Keith is now going to have to rush to catch up to them. He can go to the pool in what he slept in, and he already has his suit and towel, but he somehow… misplaced his goggles last night.

  
Not wanting to seem too obvious, Keith casually kicks a few of the mounds of clothes. Nothing. As he grabs his phone off of his desk, he “accidentally” moves a few things around with a sweep of his arm. Still nowhere to be found.

  
Pidge coughs quietly behind him.

  
He turns around slowly. He pretty much knows what’s coming at this point. They’re leaning casually against the wall, smirking with their round glasses lowered onto the tip of their nose. His goggles are dangling from their outstretched hand.

  
“I’m always right.”

  
Keith snatches the goggles from them and shoved them out the door.

  
***

  
“Take your mark…” A sharp tweet rings throughout the tiled room, and the row of swimmers on the blocks dive in almost perfect synchronization at the sound of Coran’s whistle. Keith stands behind an unusually muscular senior who could probably outswim him with minimal effort, and a light spray from Hunk’s dive spits at his ankles. Unfortunately, his near-tardiness had cost him and Pidge the opportunity for a good lane. Somehow, all of the lanes but lane one were full when they had showed up earlier that morning. Lane one means that everyone will watch him when he swims. Everyone will see even his smallest mistakes. Plus, maintenance hadn’t bothered to remove the ladders the night before, so he had already almost ripped a finger off while swimming butterfly.

  
“Feeling good, Mothman? This is your event.” Pidge’s devilish grin seems to have an ounce of concern in it, which is, at least for them, unheard of. They punch his stomach lightly. “Show all of the hot dudes here what those washerboard abs can do, hm?”

  
Slamming a hand over Pidge’s mouth in a futile attempt to cover their hysteric giggles, Keith scans the pool frantically to make sure that no one had heard. It wasn’t like he wasn’t out or anything, he just didn’t need to be distracted by Pidge’s shenanigans right before the most important time trial of his freaking life. “First of all, you are just as into Mothman as I am, you hypocrite. And second of all, none of the guys here are even that hot, I mean lik-”

  
Pidge just stares at him, a single eyebrow rising abnormally high on their forehead. If anything, it’s more effective without their giant glasses blocking half of their face. “Keith plus shirtless athletic dudes equals relationship opportunities, bud. I would know. I’m taking like all of the math classes on this campus. Don’t try to keep the gay away, we all know that it’s inevitable.”

  
Keith snatches Pidge’s hand away mid-comforting-pat-on-the-shoulder. “I am about to swim a 100 free that could determine the future of my athletic career. Could you turn off the gaydar for literally just TWO SECONDS?” The guy in front of of him dives off the block with another sharp whistle, and Hunk hauls himself out of the water, slightly red-faced. “That sucked. Have fun, guys!” He waves cheerfully, then rips off his yellow cap as he makes his way over to the side of the pool.

  
“Well, you’re up next. Mothman believes in you.” Keith feels a sharp crack against the back of his head. Did they really just snap his goggles? The nerve of that kid.

  
Seconds tick by. The air is heavy, so heavy that it seems to be pressing down on his chest, his arms, his legs. If he doesn’t swim this well, he might not make the team. He has done pretty well in all of his other time trials so far, but everyone else seemed to go just as fast, if not faster, than him. Of course his event has to be the last one. The one that he wants- no, needs- to count. Every part of his body is just so tired. If he could, he would totally just go back to his dorm and curl up in bed right now. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be an option, as the rest of his heat is already stepping up to the blocks. Damn, hundreds move fast.

  
Suddenly, the previous swimmers are out of the water, and the slightly rippling expanse of water seems a million more times intimidating. He knows that it’s only four lengths. One of the shortest races out there. But that’s the problem: even milliseconds of error can change everything.

  
The whistle sounds, harsh against the tense silence of the other swimmers, and the gentle lapping of the water at the pool’s edge. Keith immediately clicks. There are some races where he has to think about it. But now, he can just go, and swim as hard as he can. Snapping his arms into streamline, he feels himself enter the water smoothly. Perfect, or close enough to it.

  
The water rushing past him feels smooth against his burning skin, and for the first time all week, his stroke seems unified. Coran’s practices must be paying off, because he’s never felt this good so early in a season.

  
It’s over almost as soon as it starts. With a wave of water following him into the wall and a welcome fire in his lungs, he turns his head towards the scoreboard.

  
Solid. He can work with this.

  
Too preoccupied with his times to watch the other swimmers, Keith winds around the practice pool and slips through the door to the locker room. If he had only walked in the other direction, then he would have seen one swimmer watching him a bit more intently than the others.  



	5. Team player

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of college shenanigans, and the start of the swim season!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did the thing! I wrote another chapter!
> 
> I had this written literally a week ago, but I didn't have wifi to post it. Sorry!
> 
> Anyways, hope you like it!

(364) - 787- 3592 : Hello everyone! This is Allura, captain of the Garrison swim team. If you’re receiving this text, congratulations! You made the team! We will discuss event placements individually, but if you have any other questions, feel free to text me! Practice starts tomorrow!

Holy. Shit. Keith nearly drops his phone into his bowl of slightly-watery microwavable vegetable soup. He actually made it. 

Where is Pidge right now? Keith feels the sudden urge to talk to someone, ANYONE, about it. He’s not exactly an extrovert, but he’s been waiting for this moment all year. Screw his classes (well, actually, those are pretty important too), but still, this is a big deal. He’s pretty sure that they’re in calculus right now, so he can probably catch them on his way to the studio. 

Tucking his sketchbook under his arm and abandoning the soup on a far corner of his desk, Keith clears a pathway to the door with his right foot as he swings his backpack over his shoulder. Locking the door behind him, he rushes down the narrow hallway that smells only lightly of mildew, and pushes through the double doors that open to the shaded sidewalk. Even though having a dorm on the first floor brings up the concern of murderers and/or crazy drunk kids smashing through the window and attacking him in the middle of the night, it’s pretty convenient. Besides, all of his classes are really close to the building.

It’s a cliche almost-fall day. The leaves are just beginning to turn muddled hues of red, orange and yellow, and the sky is a cloudless blue. Keith turns his face up to the sky and lets the warm sun make up for the crisp bite of the wind. It’s been mostly raining for weeks now, so this is a nice change. 

“KEITH!”

He looks back down the path only to see Pidge running at him at full speed, their backpack bouncing so much that it seems to be pulling their small frame down with every step.

“Ouch… time trials killed me… that was way harder than it should have been.” They bend over panting when they reach him, but pop back up almost immediately.

“Did you get the text?”

“Yeah. I’m assuming you did too? Since you brought it up?” Shoot. Keith suddenly realizes that there was a significant possibility that they had not, in fact, made the team, but had rather just heard about the text from someone else. What if he had just totally rubbed it in for them? God, they must think he is so entitled. 

“Earth to Keith!” Pidge waves a hand in front of his apparently vacant face. “Chill, dude. I got it too.”

“Oh, good.” He laughs lightly. That would have been awkward, even for his standards.  
“Want me to walk to drawing with you?” Pidge points a thumb over their shoulder. “I don’t have anything until computer science, which is at two.”

“Sure. Miss Donnelly is gonna kill me, so might need some moral support. Between swimming and my accidental deep dive into the public FBI files last night, I still haven’t finished my homework. And let me tell you, that woman isn’t forgiving when it comes to grades.”

“Okay. Firstly, what kind of homework do you even get in FREAKIN ART CLASS? Also, why the hell were you on the FBI webpage?”

Keith opens up his black sketchbook to one of the middle pages, revealing a crudely drawn face. “Well, we were supposed to find a magazine photo of a person and draw them in charcoal, but… this is as far as I got.” 

God, his drawing must have been really off last night. That looks really awful. He closes the book hastily and tucks it back under his arm, taking care not to smudge what little work he’s done. 

“And second of all, I was doing some research on the Kent State shooting for a history project, and I accidentally opened up the FBI files- hey, you would’ve done the same!”

Pidge is snickering, walking slightly faster to keep up with him. It’s true though, Pidge is just as nerdy as he is, if not more so. They have spent plenty of nights together procrastinating on schoolwork by watching forensic files or obscure Area 51 documentaries.

“Fine, mothman. I’ll give you that. Hey, look! Isn’t that Hunk from swim team?”

Pidge points to where two paths intersect ahead of them. Sure enough, Hunk’s broad figure is walking towards the art buildings, too. Keith has never really talked to him outside of the pool, other than that one time when they went to breakfast. Still, he seems like a nice guy, and he and Pidge have already become pretty good friends.

“HUNK!” Pidge screeches across the lawn. He turns to them and waves, then stops, waiting for them to catch up to him. Pidge grabs Keith’s arm and drags him over.

“Hey, guys! Why are you here? Wait-” Hunk’s eyes widen suddenly. “Did you both make it?”

“Heck yeah!” Pidge shouts and high fives Hunk. And suddenly, Hunk is holding up his hand to Keith. Hesitantly, Keith gives him a high five, too.

“Anyways, Keith and I are here because he has art soon. And I needed something to do with my life other than write essays.” Pidge slings their arm over Keith’s shoulder and uses the leverage to lift themselves into the air.

“Ow, ow, owowow PIDGE!” He pries their arm off of him somewhat frantically. “Shoulders. Butterly. Pain.” 

“Ah, yes. Hunk, may I introduce you to my dear friend Keith, the resident weakass.”

Goddamn Pidge. What a nightmare. Honestly, why is he even friends with them? Rolling his eyes, he grabs their forearm and steers them in the direction of his next class. 

“I’m going to art, too! Sculpture, actually. Mind if I walk with you?” Hunk gestures towards the grey row of buildings in front of them, and the group sets off down the sunlit path. “And Keith you definitely aren’t a weakass. Time trials were brutal. Pidge must be a superhuman, that’s all.”

“Damn right.” Pidge looks down at their watch. “Shoot, I have to grab lunch before compsci. Have fun getting stabbed in the heart with various pencils by Donnelly, Keith! Bye, guys!” They turn back, and head off to find some sort ramen, probably. 

“So you’re in drawing right now? I haven’t taken that, but Allura has. It’s pretty hard, right?” Hunk smiles warmly at Keith. Wow, he seems so nice. No wonder everyone, even that Lance kid, is friends with him.

“Yeah. The class is great, but the teacher is an impossible grader. How’s sculpture?” He’s trying to seem approachable. Is it working? Hopefully. 

“It’s a pretty good time. It’s a nice break from some of my harder courses.” He pauses for a second, then points to the building to the right. “This is where I’m going, so I’ll see you at practice tomorrow at seven, right?”

Keith gives him a small smile. Maybe swimming this year would actually be fun.  
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

***

“Okay, Keith. So your time trial clearly proved you to be a valuable competitor in the 100 free. Your backstroke time was also pretty great. You’re more of a sprinter, right?”

Keith is sitting in Coran’s office, a small room with windowless walls covered with plaques, medals, photographs, and tons of orange and grey paraphernalia. Allura had called him in here a few minutes ago to organize his events for the coming seasons. And even though she is sitting across from him at the cramped desk (and asking him all of the questions), just having Shiro, his own brother, sitting there beside her, is beyond weird. Keith is so used to being surrounded by complete strangers after his time at Galra College. Now, everyone seems to vaguely like him. He isn’t sure how he feels about it. 

“Um, yeah. Mostly sprints. But I can do 200’s, too.” He feels so small sitting in the plastic chair, the kind that is normally found in elementary school classrooms. As nice as the pool at Garrison is, Coran really needs a better gig for his office The whole place smells mildewy, and the yellowing lights gives everything an aged feel, as though the room itself was a museum.

Allura types something on her laptop, then looks down at him again. He can feel Shiro’s eyes on him now, too. For most of the interview, Shiro was just staring helplessly at his co-captain. For the first time, his brother speaks, not Allura.

“How would you feel if we put you on a relay?”

Ugh. Relays. Keith has never liked relying on other competitor’s performances. He’s more of an independent swimmer, and Shiro knows that. He gives him a death stare, hoping to ward him off. No such luck.

“We want to work on getting you out of your comfort zone. It’ll be good for you!” He’s radating that please-cooperate-I’m-your-older-brother smile, a signature Shiro move. Dammit.

“Fine. But please don’t make me swim breastroke?” If there’s one thing that Keith hates more than relays, it’s the deathly slow speed of breastroke.

Allura’s laugh tinkles throughout the small room. “Of course not, we’d probably have you swim the freestyle leg of a medley. Anyways, that’s all we have for you. You can head out to the weight room now!” 

Grabbing his brand-new Garrison Lions swim bag from under the desk, Keith hastily opens the door and rushes out to the pool deck. That whole situation was beyond uncomfortable, between having his brother as his coach, and being coerced into swimming as a relay swimmer, of all things. Well, at least he made the team. That’s a step up from his expectations. Speaking of the team, everyone is supposed to be doing dryland right now. It would be really helpful if he could remember where to go. 

Walking across the slippery tile deck, Keith scans the various glass doors for any sign of the weight room which he had been called from literally five minutes ago. How can he not remember where it is? It can’t be over there… 

Keith turns again, trying to seem casual as he walks down the same side of the pool deck for the third time. Suddenly, a door swings open right in front of his face. Like, so close that if he had kept walking, he probably would have turned the glass on the door red after breaking his nose on it. 

“Looking for something, mulletman?” 

Oh. My. God. Freaking Lance McClain. The last person Keith wants to see right now.

Lance’s smirk widens at Keith’s silence. “Yeah, buddy. The weight room is in here. Y’know, the door that you’ve walked past literally three times. The one with the sign that literally says WEIGHT ROOM above it. Except you probably wouldn’t know, since you seem a bit vertically challenged.” He’s pointing at a small sign above him, which does, unfortunately, indicate that the weight room is through this door in a rather small print.

Rage boils up in him before he can stop it. “I am NOT short, string bean! How about you just let me through the door that you seemed so eager to lead me to, huh?” Suddenly, he’s shoving a palm into Lance’s chest, and a dull thud rings throughout the pool deck as Lance’s head smacks the back of the door. Okay, that was satisfying.

Keith just needs to lift. And maybe do a bit of work on the punching bag. Okay, maybe a lot of work.


	6. Dream team?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith has an (almost) perfect day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s back? (It’s me). You thought this fic was dead? Yeah, I did too. Sorry for totally abandoning ship. I had a bit of a writers block, and then completely lost motivation. But swim season just restarted for me, and now that I’m feeling it again, I’m planning to keep writing. Will I actually finish this? Who knows! But, actually have ideas now, so it’s all downhill from here :)

One more paragraph. That’s it, and he’s done. And he has approximately half an hour to write it, print it, and get his ass to the pool. Great. There’s no way he’s gonna get this done. Time time to call in the big guns.

Keith fishes around between his sheet and duvet, finally pulling out his unfortunately-still-shattered phone. Hopefully, Shiro still remembers American history.

The phone rings twice, before Shiro’s cheery voice blasts into his right ear.

“What’s up, Keith? And no, I won’t write your history essay for you.”

“Damn. Fine. I won’t ask you to write it, but I do need a crash course on how Mrs. Brown likes her conclusions structured. I have exactly ten minutes.”

“Okay, little, bro. Buckle up. Write it exactly this way, or she will literally ream you. Sound good?”

By the end of the nine minutes of Shiro’s calm, yet somehow more-than-slightly exasperated sounding lecture, Keith’s fingers are literally numb. But hey, at least he has a finished essay. He slams his laptop shut and stuffs it into his duffel alongside his towel for maximum cushioning, then practically sprints out the door. He might actually make it.

Practice starts at 8:00, and it is currently 7:40. Night practices mean that Keith is usually up later that what would be deemed healthy (even for a college student), but hey, at least he doesn’t have to get up at the ungodly hour of 3 in the morning like he did back at Galra College. And since his essay is done, he might actually be able to sleep before Chem tomorrow.

He makes it to the library surprisingly quickly. The table by the printer is unusually empty, occupied only by a couple of sweatshirt-clad students huddled over their laptops. Slamming his bag down and yanking out his MacBook, Keith presses print faster than Pidge could (theoretically) hack the entire government. The machine whirs to life, and three fresh pages are spit out almost immediately. Perfect. Forget proofreading- he has a practice to get to. He tucks the pages between the screen and Keyboard of his computer, sticks it all back into his bag, and looks across the table to make sure that he hasn’t forgotten any-

Oh heckity-heck no. Keith has to leave. Right now. He has to see Lance again in like ten minutes, and he does NOT need another argument to make him late. As long as Lance keeps staring at his computer screen that intently, he should be able to get out of here unnoticed.

***

It seems like the swimming gods are with him today, because Keith actually gets to the pool on time, and with exactly zero interactions with Lance McClain. He’s in the pool, all capped and goggled and ready to go, literally seconds before Coran walks in. Pidge, a few people behind him, gives him the eyebrow raise. Okay, he’s a hot mess. That’s evident, apparently.

Peeking over the shoulder of the junior in front of him, Keith notices an unusually empty gap in the line. Lance. He isn’t really surprised- Lance seemed pretty focused at the library. That kind of sucks, though. When Lance finally shows up, Coran is gonna have his neck-

Wait. Hold up. Is he actually feeling… bad? For Lance? Wow, that essay must’ve really messed with his brain. Keith pushes off the wall, cool water streaming over him. Maybe swimming with knock his thoughts back into place.

Their lane is already a quarter of the way through warm up when the heavy glass door to the pool bangs open, and rushed footsteps slap against the tile as Lance sprints up to the bleachers where Coran is standing. The scene apparently causes enough ruckus for Keith’s entire lane, as well as the one next to him, to ignore the next sendoff in favor of watching the approaching spectacle.

“Coran! My dude… I am… so… sorry I’m late…”

Lance is panting heavily, cheeks flushed from the chill outside and his assumed dead-sprint to the athletic center. He throws his bag down on the bleachers and starts rifling around frantically for his gear.

“Lance, my boy! Slow down, take a breather.” Coran doesn’t look nearly as pissed as he probably should’ve.

“Being this late to practice regularly is unacceptable. But as long as this is a one time thing, I’m willing to turn a blind eye.” Lance exhales heavily, finally pulling his cap from the side pocket of the grey duffel.

“Oh man, you don’t even know how much I appreciate that! The printer was really backed up, and then suddenly it was past eight, and I got here as fast as I could, and again, I’m so sorry-”

“Lance. Pool. It’s fine.” Coran’s mustache is starting to twitch. Whether it’s from amusement or annoyance, Keith doesn’t know.

Lance splashes not-so-gracefully into his place, then follows the line back into warm up. As he switches into his 300 kick, Keith finds his thoughts wandering. Lance said that the printer was backed up? That’s weird. His had printed right away. Oh well, Karma’s a Bitch. He doesn’t have time to worry about it anyway. The chemistry lecture tomorrow is going to be brutal- almost two hours, but if he can get a solid six hours of sleep tonight, he just might be able to stay awake.

The workout flies by, and Coran pulls them out at 10:30. Pretty solid for a weekday. Keith books it to the locker room and is able to find an empty shower with minimal effort. No waiting his turn between the rows of lockers in the frigid second room today, thank you very much. He runs some body wash through his hair (he’s a poor college student, alright? Shampoo is a luxury), and actually has enough hot water to last him until he’s done. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he fast-walks out to the lockers, then shoves on his sweats at record speed in an attempt to trap the precious heat against his skin. 

His sweatshirt is halfway over his head when a chorus of yells rings off the cinderblock walls. Pulling the permanently-chlorinated fabric over his head, he nearly trips over the bench behind him in surprise. Allura, pink sweatsuit and all, is standing in the doorway of the locker room.

“Hey, boys! Okay, so- Oh PLEASE, John, you’re speedo’s so skimpy that we’ve all seen more than that on a daily basis. Don’t act so surprised.” John continues to hunch in the corner, holding his towel to his waist like his life depended on it.

“Anyways. As I was trying to say, we will be announcing the lineup for the first meet in two weeks tonight. So once you all are decent, meet up in the bleachers.” And with that, she spins on her heel and leaves through the door as quickly as she had come through. Good thing Shiro was still in the showers. Judging by the looks a few of the boys had just given her bottom half on the way out, The swim team would’ve had some dead bodies on their hands.

***

“Okay, so now for the boy’s 400 medley.” Coran is standing on some weird box thing, yelling slightly too loudly for almost midnight. Keith rises slightly from his aggressive slouch- all he’s been put in so far is the 100 backstroke. Not that it isn’t great- he can’t wait to swim in the first meet. Still, though, he wants to do what he loves. And since they already announced the 100 free and the free relay, this is his last chance for the next month.

“For the A relay… McClain, we want you on backstroke.” Keith can’t help rolling his eyes as Lance shrugs his shoulders, smirking at his neighbor. What an ass.

“Hunk, breastroke.” Hunk cheers and reaches behind him to give Lance an awkward high-five.

“Shiro, you’ve got butterfly?” His brother nods dutifully, but Keith can see the spark of excitement in his eyes.

“And Kogane, you’re going to be our anchor.”

Wait. Kogane, as in… Keith? That’s him! No freaking way. They’re gonna be a power relay. Him, and Shiro, and Hunk, and....

Oh no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this. Your patience is astounding (note the addition of the slow burn tag)


	7. Of Painting and Papers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith loves art, and something goes horribly awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy thanksgiving! Hope you like it!

Keith rolls over slowly, trying his best to keep the mattress from crinkling under his weight. Pidge is definitely NOT a morning person, and he is not down to deal with their gremlin-ness right now.

He sighs, rolling out of his comforter and padding across the room to his desk. He might as well get some work done- his essay from yesterday is definitely subpar, so it wouldn’t hurt to look it over.

 

Flopping down into the bulky wood chair (which he honestly hasn’t sat in in months), Keith opens his laptop, pushing his printed essay to the side. He doesn’t have history until noon today, so he should have time to print it again before drawing. Okay then. From the beginning.

 

He’s sitting there for longer than he probably should be, considering that the paper is only five pages long. Sleep would probably be helpful in his ability to process whatever the hell he’s reading, but he feels more awake than he would be after drinking about five espressos. After getting about halfway through his lengthy analysis of John D. Rockefeller, he slams his MacBook shut. Screw it. He’s not going to end up changing anything in the long run, so he might as well go and be productive with something else.

 

        The cool breeze of dawn whips through Keith’s hair as crisp brown leaves swirl a trail behind Red. It’s still starry out, but the moon is a sliver, leaving only the headlight of his motorbike to keep him from running off of the abandoned road and getting impaled by a pine tree. He hasn’t even bothered to grab his helmet- the lake is only a couple minutes away, and it’s not like there are any cars to get run over by at this ungodly hour, anyway.

 

        He floats down the hill, not bothering to put on his brakes. This. This is what he needed, what he craves. To not be cooped up in some stuffy lecture hall, the echoing pool, or even his prison cell of a dorm room. If there’s one thing he’s missed about the desert, it’s the openness. Garrison University doesn’t have a lot of it, and until now, he hasn’t realized how much he’s missed being able to look ahead and not see a single other human being.

 

        He skids to a stop in the gravel lot, parking Red underneath her customary tree. The lake is just a short walk down the squirrel trail (don’t ask, Garrison has the world’s cheesiest names for their hiking paths), and he’s there well before the orange sun breaks over the wooded horizon. Despite the cold breeze, the water seems relatively calm, with only the slightest of sloshing sounds against the rocky banks. Although the sky is more open here than on the road, it’s still dark enough that he has to use a flashlight to make his way to his usual spot.

 

        The rock, a perfect wedge with a flat top, strays far enough from the path that only a few students’ initials are crudely scraped into it. Keith has done a lot of drawings from here, ever since he discovered it a few weeks into the semester. There was one pencil sketch picturing the perfect late-summer day, complete with students lounging in the beach and floating out in canoes and on paddleboards. He did another one a few weeks ago in the warm afternoon glow of a sunny fall day. The leaves had been so vibrant that he had even used oil paints. Miss Donnelly, despite teaching only drawing, was VERY pushy about her students experimenting with mixed media, and to make up for his crappy sketchbook assignment the week prior, he decided to take a stab at painting. He was surprised by how much he didn’t hate it.

 

        In fact, he actually didn’t mind it so much that when rushing out of his dorm this morning, Keith grabbed his watercolors and stuffed them into his backpack alongside his sketchbook. Charcoal is still definitely his favorite, but hey, he can kind of see where Donnelly is coming from.

 

        The sun still hasn’t come up yet, and he can’t really get much done without being able to see the paper in front of him, so he just lies down with his head on his backpack. It feels a bit like laying on a block of ice, and he would be freezing his ass off without his sweats and jacket, but he doesn’t care. It’s wild and raw and vulnerable, and the only signs of movement around him are the stars winking down at him and the water crashing gently at his feet. It’s different, and that’s nice.

 

        He doesn’t know how long he’s laying there, but the sky slowly begins to lighten. Almost methodically, he opens his sketchbook and does a rough layout of the landscape. It’s the same every time, so this part is easy. Then, the sun rises.

 

        It’s bright and firey and completely overwhelms the world, reddening the silvery water and making silhouettes of the barren trees. The color is nearly shocking in it’s opacity, masked only by a few stray clouds. It’s incredible, so he paints.

 

        The blaring of Keith’s phone alarm echoes throughout the deserted woods, and he nearly knocks over his water cup in shock. That’s it. He’s been out here for hours now, but it’s done. And damn, if it doesn’t look good. Sure, it’s not as well done as some of his monochrome work, but what more can Donnelly expect? He’s giving her a bonus piece in his weekly sketchbook today, and she’d better at least recognize his efforts.

 

***

 

        He gets to the studio with seconds to spare. Sure, he almost hit a couple of freshman with his motorcycle in his rush to grab a granola bar before class, but at least he made it. Everyone’s already at their easels, so he scoots around the perimeter of the room to avoid the questioning stares.

 

        Class is pretty boring. That’s about it. They’re working on portraits based off of these weird miniature Grecian statues placed throughout the room. A few days on one, then rotate onto the next. The work has been fast, and honestly, Keith doesn’t mind it. There’s no time to overthink.

 

        By 11:15, he’s finished with the angry-looking poseidon guy, and there’s only fifteen minutes left in the class. Shuffling through his black hole of a bag, he pulls out his computer. He already gave his sketchbook to Miss Donnelly at the beginning of the period, so that’s done. But he honestly can’t remember if he grabbed his printed history essay off of his desk this morning, and he doesn’t exactly have the time to go grab it if he forgot.

 

        He sighs. It’s still wedged inside his laptop, thank god. That would have been bad.

 

        Minutes tick by. When he’s not doing anything, this class seems like an eternity. After trying (and failing) to sit comfortably on his stool for a while, he pulls out his paper again. One more read through can’t hurt, right?

 

Ta-Nehisi Coates, the first person narrator and author of the 2015 memoir Between the World and Me, grew up experiencing the terrors of racial violence outside of Baltimore, Maryla- Wait. Ta-Nehisi Coates? Keith had never heard of the guy in his life. And he’s pretty sure that his paper on the industrial revolution doesn’t involve him whatsoever. Stomach flipping, he scrolls back to the top of the page.

 

Well, shit. That is not good. That is really, REALLY, not good. This… is not his essay. And even worse, it belongs to Lance freaking McClain. Of all people!

 

Keith’s feels his throat start to constrict. This essay is worth a TON of points, and he can’t afford another bad grade in the class. It wouldn’t be a problem if he had time to just go print it again, but the library is on one side of campus- and the history building is on the complete opposite one. The art building is right between the two, and Donnelly would only let him leave early if he had to walk over her grave in the process. So with half an hour from drawing to history, he somehow has to find his goddamn essay without reprinting it.

 

He frantically scrolls through his contacts, only slowing down when he reaches “M”. McClain… McClain… It has to be in here somewhere. Nope. Then, it hits him. Hunk.

 

Hunk’s in some sculpture class in the neighboring building right now. They’ve become sort-of friends throughout the semester, and Keith definitely has his number… and Hunk has Lance’s number. Keith starts a new message.

 

**Keith** : HUNK

 

**Hunk** : You okay, Keith?

 

Oh, thank the art gods for letting Hunk have his phone out right now. He has exaxctly five minutes to figure out how the hell he’s going to find Lance McClain.

 

**Keith** : Do you have Lance’s number?

 

**Hunk** : Yeah, but he’s not gonna respond. He’s in astrophysics right now.

 

Keith nearly chokes on his own spit. Lance? Astrophysics? The guy seemed like too much of an airhead to even form a coherent sentence. No way he’s in…

 

**Keith** : Ok, nvm. Do you have a class after this

 

**Hunk** : No… why

 

**Keith** : Do you know how to get to the Astrophysics building

 

**Hunk** : yeah why tho

 

**Keith** : I need you to tell me how to get there. Its a long story so just meet me in the lot after class ok

 

**Hunk** : sure thing buddy!

 

**Keith** : ur my savior thanks sm

 

“Class dismissed. See you all on Tuesday!” Miss Donnelly’s soft voice rings through the silent studio. Keith swings hs backpack over his shoulder and dead-sprints out through the glass door, dozens of pairs of eyes following him out.

 

Hunk, thank god, is already standing outside the brick sculpture building, hands jammed into his armpits in an attempt to keep warm. Keith waves frantically him, and he jogs over, a worried frown evident on his usually joyful face.

 

“Dude, what’s up? You’re scaring me, are you okay?” Hunk grunts as Keith grabs him by the arm and drags him (maybe a bit too forcefully) over to his motorcycle. Keith opens the seat compartment and pulls out a spare helmet.

 

“Put this on.”

 

“Umm… are you for real?” Hunk is definitely shocked. Okay, he looks terrified.

 

“Okay, I need you to help me find Lance because I think he has my history essay and I have his and I can’t get another shitty grade in the class and it starts in half an hour. That’s the short version.” Keith swings his leg over the seat, and pats the one behind him. “I don’t know where to find him, so that’s where you come in.”

 

Hunk is still standing frozen, eyes wide.

 

“I’ll tell you the complete version on the way. Now, I promise I won’t kill you, but I could REALLY use your help right now.”

 

Hesitantly, Hunk climbs onto Red behind Keith.

 

Keith barely has the words “hold on” out of him before they are whizzing out of the parking lot, Hunk’s massive hands gripping his shoulders like his life depends on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are gonna get better for klance really soon :)


	8. Essay Escapades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe Lance isn’t as bad as Keith thought he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeee I’m on a roll
> 
> Okay sorry I’m tired but here’s a chapter

“Okay… next right- yeah, right there!”

 

Keith swerves sharply on Hunk’s instruction, back wheel skidding slightly against the asphalt. Hunk grips even tighter to his shoulders, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. Okay, his driving might be a bit aggressive right now, but Keith NEEDS that essay.

 

On the five minute drive from the art complex to the science buildings (on which he sped more than what is probably considered acceptable), Keith gave Hunk the full run-down on the essay switch. How it happened, Keith still isn’t completely sure, but it’s most likely that he took Lance’s essay off of the printer last night instead of his own. Whatever. He doesn’t have time to worry about that right now. Hunk told him that Lance had a lab last class, so he would probably be a few minutes late out of the building. That’s Keith’s only chance, though- despite the English building being right next to his history class in Brown Hall, pretty much the entire University takes the English Language class that Lance has next. There would be no way to find him in there.

 

Keith jams on his brakes, and nearly flies over Red’s handlebars with the force. Not bothering to tell Hunk what to do with his still-running motorcycle, he sets off for the glass building at the end of the path at a dead sprint. Good thing he has actually been doing the dryland workouts.

 

Legs flailing, arms pumping, wind rushing past his ears, he barely looks up when he runs face-first into- Lance?

 

“Lanceohmygod… doyouhavemyessay?” Keith immediately keels over, placing his hands on his knees as he struggles to speak between gasps of air.

 

Lance, who is now on the ground due to the apparent force of their collision, is silent for once. “... Keith?” His tan face twists into a muddled frown.

 

Keith is already ripping off his backpack, yanking out his laptop and pulling out his- wait, Lance’s- essay. “Do. You. Have. My. Essay.” He shoves the stack of papers in Lance’ s face, but the boy’s confused look remains.

 

“Okay, look.” Lance clearly doesn’t get it, so Keith’s gonna have to do a run-down. Again. He seriously doesn’t have time for this. “Last night, when you were printing your English essay in the library, the printer was super backed up, right? Well, I took your essay by accident, and you must have taken mine.” He points to the header on the paper, shoving it further towards Lance. “I need mine back. Now. Like within the next two minutes, so that I don’t get another shitty grade.”

 

Lance, seemingly frozen to the ground in shock, lets out a small, “oh.” And despite hating this guy with every fiber of his being, Keith can’t help feeling just a little bit bad. Okay, maybe he had been a tad aggressive with that whole spiel, and it had been his fault that this whole mess had been created in the first place, anyways. He sighs. “Lance, I really need your help. Please.”

 

That seems to snap Lance out of his stupor. He hastily unzips his fallen bag, shuffling around until he pulls out a slightly crumpled essay. Keith practically rips it out of his hands, scanning the top for his name.

 

Yes! This is it. Oh, thank god. Keith begins to turn back down the path, but stops after a couple of strides. He still has Lance’s essay.

 

Lance is still on the ground, zipping up his apparently VERY disorganized backpack.

 

“Wait, Lance!” Lance looks back up at him, eyes slightly widening at his return. “I- I still have yours.” And for whatever reason, by the grace of whatever social interaction gods exist in this world, Keith reaches out his empty hand.

 

Lance hesitates. Then, after what seems like torturous minutes, he takes it, hauling himself to his feet. “Um… thanks, but I’ll be needing that.” He points to the neatly stapled paper in Keith’s other hand, which now unfortunately contains a rather large tear on the first page from being dragged through the seven levels of hell.

 

“Oh- yeah.” Keith sticks his arm out ramrod straight, pretty much slapping the essay into Lance’s waiting hand. “Sorry… about the rip. The morning’s been pretty chaotic.”

 

And then Lance smiles. Not the snarky smirk that Keith is accustomed to being on the receiving end of, but not the toothy grin that consumes his entire face, either- that one that he uses with Hunk and Allura and pretty much everyone but him. Yet, it’s still a smile. Barely a hint, just an upturn of the lips. But it’s there.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Lance pauses, gingerly taking the paper from Keith’s hand. “And… thank you. See you at practice?”

 

Keith lets out a heavy breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Yeah.”

 

And then he’s sprinting back towards Red, essay clutched victoriously in his hand. He’s gonna make it. Sure, his writing may still be crap, but at least it’s for a class that he’s actually taking.

 

He skids to a stop in front of his motorcycle, heart racing with adrenaline and relief and… something else that he can’t quite place. But that doesn’t matter right now. He has a lecture to make.

 

***

 

When he swings open the door to the pool deck that evening, Keith is greeted with an eerie silence. He’s used to the constant splashes and chatter of his teammates echoing throughout the room at all times, so the stark contrast of getting there before everyone else is a bit of a shock.

 

Yesterday had been a bit of a close call time-wise, so he had planned to leave a few minutes early today- just to show Shiro that he really WAS dedicated to the team. His brother has always made countless sacrifices to the sport: his time, his money, his arm. In comparison, Keith seems… well, inadequate.

 

But not this year. He’s the most in shape he’s ever been, and he’s actually let Pidge drag him to a few of the team dinners around campus. And he knows that part of it is not being on a team with degrading coaches and shitty teammates, but so far, the season has been pretty phenomenal individually.

 

He makes his way around the first pool towards the set of home bleachers, climbing up to the third row. Wandering down the aisle, he plops his duffel smack down on top of Lance McClain’s legs, his grey sweatpants conveniently camouflaging with the shiny silver bench.

 

“Ow! The hell?” Lance shoots up from his lying position, nearly slipping off of the narrow bench in the process.

 

Keith rolls his eyes. Why did Lance have to be so snarky all the time? “Dude, chill. I just didn’t see you.”

 

“Oh… sorry. I didn’t mean…” He sputters, face downcast.

 

Keith picks his bag back up, shifting a few feet down to sit. Their silence rings empty off of the stark ceilings.

 

Lance cuts through the distant buzzing of the heating system first. “And, sorry- I mean, sorry about the whole essay thing. Today, I mean…” He drifts off again. Keith sees him cross his arms over his chest, slouching further into himself. It’s pitiful, even by Keith’s standards.

 

Despite it definitely being too late to make a decent reply, Keith figures that he might as well make an effort. Lance, probably the cockiest idiot in all of Garrison, had apologized to him. But if he hated Keith, then why… oh well. It can’t hurt. They’re on the same relay now, after all.

 

“It’s okay.” That seems to surprise Lance. His blue eyes widen in the slightest curiosity, and he turns to face Keith a bit more. Spurred on by his stare, Keith continues. “And, it was really my fault. The whole essay thing. I should’ve checked the paper before I left the library.”

 

 “Yeah, okay, it was kind of your fault.” Lance is smirking now. That little shit.

 

Before Keith can snap back at him, though, he lets out a laugh. It’s slight, but there. “Kidding. But I accept your apology, anyways.”

 

They don’t say anything for a few moments after that. Lance fiddles with a dolphin keychain on his bag, while Keith picks at the knot in his headphones. But the silence isn’t quite uncomfortable. Instead, the quiet of the airy space stills whatever tension has been brewing between them for the past month and a half. Keith can’t help feeling that it’s almost… nice.

 

“I took that class, you know. American history.” Keith glances up from the cemented tangle of headphones in his hands to find Lance’s clear blue eyes staring back.

 

“Oh?” He isn’t quite sure how to reply to that.

 

“If you have questions… here, I can give you my number- just text me if you need help with formatting or anything. That’s what I had trouble with last year.” Lance pulls out an empty notecard and pen from his duffel- why he has those in there, Keith has no idea- and scrawls down a series of blue numbers with complete disregard to the lines on the paper.

 

“My boys!” A cheery voice startles them both out of… whatever the hell that was. Coran waves to them from the left entrance, clipboard in hand. “Glad to see that you’re here early! I could use some help with lane lines today, if you wouldn’t mind!”

 

 Lance practically jumps up, brushing past Keith without so much as a glance back in his direction. The folded notecard is still on the bench. Well… a little homework help can’t hurt, right?

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ll get back into swimming next chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? Leave a comment! Thanks a million!


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